Ritual of Our Existence
by WeepingRian
Summary: Emma Swan breezes into town on her 28th birthday and upsets the balance of the curse. Now, it's up to her to find out the town's biggest secret: what happened to Mr. Gold's mysterious "her?" Sequel to Born Dead. Season 1 AU
1. Prologue

**Anything that is happening inside of Lacey's mind, and not in reality, is in italics.**

 **I own nothing related to Once Upon a Time, Alice in Wonderland, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Clock, and the Center Cannot Hold.**

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"This world... This world belongs to the strong, my friend.  
The ritual of our existence is based on the strong getting  
stronger by devouring the weak."  
-One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Clock

Something had changed in the town of Storybrooke, Maine.

It was subtle, a light ripple across an otherwise uneventful landscape. Unless someone was looking for it, no one would notice a change.

Lacey was always looking.

As the last chime from the clock tower ended, Lacey's world became clearer. It was as though she had been trying to see underwater for years, and only just now realized it. The blurred lines of the unreality that Lacey had become so used to were slightly straighter, the people slightly sharper, their voices slightly stronger. It fascinated Lacey how quickly and quietly this had occurred, how in one small moment everything and nothing could change. She still couldn't see completely through the unreality, but cracks were beginning to show. Soon it would break entirely.

The end was almost near.

She was sitting by herself in the rec room. In one corner, Alice and the Chief were debating (more, Alice was explaining the benefits of cat-ownership while the Chief ignored her). Nurse Ratched stood at the center, surveying the room like an eagle watching its prey. Jefferson, Lacey's favorite orderly, walked into the room…

And promptly walked back out.

All was normal in the world of lunatics, except for the tiny shimmer of change that lightly glowed throughout the room. It intrigued her, but Lacey couldn't deny the fear flashing through her like strobe lights. Jefferson lived in reality, and there was something so…unstable about him, as though at any moment his pain would explode his chest. If reality was so horrible, Lacey wasn't entirely certain that she wanted it to intrude upon her life. The unreality might have confused her, but it was safe. In Lacey's world, that's what she needed most.

So she sat there, contemplating what to do and how to react, when there was a sudden and biting creak behind her. She whipped around, every nerve on alert. _There, right behind her, sat a clocked figure at a spinning wheel. She couldn't see his face, but knew, deep in her heart, that he was there for her. Slowly—oh, so slowly—the wheel turned as his long fingers stroked it tenderly, as though it was a woman and not a machine. The fight drained out of her as she watched the man work, steadily, mesmerizingly. She followed the thread with her eyes, the back of her mind noting that it slowly transformed into gold._

 _But that wasn't important. That wasn't the purpose._

 _She was being drawn to it, as though a rope had lassoed her around the waist and was pulling her forward. She went willingly, but slowly, each step weighing a world. Something inside of Lacey told her to stay away; she didn't know this man. She didn't_ truly _want to know why he spun. But a fog had come over her brain and was clouding her instincts. She was forgetting where she was, who she was, what she was (and maybe that was the purpose)._

 _Her feet wanted to run but her mind couldn't remember how. So instead, she crept forward._

 _Slowly—oh so slowly—Lacey crawled. Each step felt like a millennia, but she had time. The man wasn't going to go anywhere. This she knew. He was there for her and he wasn't going to leave. Not yet._

 _But there was suddenly a chair, and Lacey was suddenly tripping over it, and the wonderful spell she had been under was suddenly broken. A loud clatter rang throughout the room as the chair toppled over (and when had it even appeared?). Lacey bit back a yelp even as a horrifying hush descended. The wind was sucking in on itself, drawing back out of fear. Lacey stopped breathing, the world stopped turning, and the decaying spinning wheel halted. As Lacey stood cemented to the floor, the lone figure slowly turned, bringing his large, reptilian eyes to hers. As they met, Lacey felt a sudden and unexpected pain burst from her heart. She was being ripped apart from the inside, her flesh turning inside out. The pain touched the edges of her mind—of her soul—and there was no way to contain it. All she could do was succumb._

 _The man just sat there, watching—unmoving, uncaring, unfeeling._

 _Lacey could not breathe. Her lungs were being crushed under the sheer weight of his gaze. She wanted it to end—wanted to_ be _ended—but the world is not known for its mercy. Instead, the pain dragged on and Lacey kept on living and the man kept on watching with his large, reptilian eyes._

She dropped to the floor. At some point, she must have screamed, but Lacey couldn't remember. Four orderlies were rushing towards her, even as the rest of the room paused. The patients silently watched her, staring at her with pity (for they were sick, but they weren't _that_ sick). They knew the poor, crazy girl who so often sat alone was never going to get better.

It was common, unspoken knowledge.

So no one helped when the orderlies grabbed her by her limbs and yanked her up, her body suspended over the floor. Lacey's gaze was jolted from the man, as they flung her onto a nearby gurney. When she looked back, he was gone.

As Lacey spasmed on the stretcher, the orderlies strapped her down, each cuff digging painfully into her skin. She attempted to twist out of them, but only managed to chaff herself; the dry, itchy feeling only serving to cause her greater discomfort.

Jefferson stood near her head, tightening the straps and avoiding her eyes. Nurse Ratched came up behind him, surveying his work. Her eyes moved from his hands to Lacey's face, a slippery smile forming as she took in her fear.

"This is for your own good, Lacey. You are out of control. This will help calm you," the nurse craftily whispered. Lacey could not believe that they were trying to help her. They were only hindering her escape. He wouldn't let her go so easily; he would come for her, and she would have no defenses.

"No, please! He'll come back for me! He's going to come back! You can't just leave me here. He'll hurt me! You have to help! Why aren't you helping?" Lacey was practically in tears, her voice cracking as she pleaded with the callous nurse.

"I don't know what you're talking about, girl. There is no one there. It's all in your mind, a symptom of your disease."

"No! He was real! Realer than you! Realer than anything. And now he's not happy. He wanted me, but I'm not with him! He's going to come back! You're supposed to protect me! Let me out! I'm not crazy! Let me out!"

"Seeing things that aren't there are what crazy, little girls do. Crazy, little girls need to be strapped down when they're out of control so they don't hurt themselves. Are you a crazy, little girl?" Nurse Ratched leaned down, whispering close to Lacey's ear, "I think you are."

And that was the end of their conversation.

They left her alone in her room, strapped to the bed so that she could contemplate what she had done. She had been a bad girl, disturbing the peace with her outburst. She should feel ashamed.

Mostly, Lacey felt empty.

She had nothing to do but lie there and think. The man's eyes had been so real… too real… unlike anything Lacey had ever seen before (and yet, she _had_ seen them before, hadn't she?). The unreality had not touched them— _never_ touched them—and they were living in the world beyond her sight. They were what lay beneath the cracks, what were threatening to seep out and destroy the world. They were pain and hurt and fear and _so very real_.

Those eyes had penetrated her, going deep to the edges of her heart. They filled its dark corners with understanding (of what, Lacey wasn't entirely sure). That man had known Lacey better than she knew herself, and he wanted her to realize that. There was something she was missing, something just outside her memory trying to slip back inside. It was almost there, almost back inside, almost breaking in, it just needed a little…

Push. _And with that thought, he was there, standing in the shadows of her jail. She couldn't see the face—couldn't see the reptilian eye- but she knew who it was and what he wanted: her. He had come as her reckoning, a reaper to pass judgment on her soul. She had failed his test, and now…now she would pay for it._

 _"Forever," some dark voice echoed through her mind like wind through a cave. Forever. But forever wasn't enough and now he had come and she would pay for what she had done (what_ had _she done?). She had forgotten, but that was no matter. Memory or not, we must all pay the price for our sins._

 _Lacey's time had come to pay for hers._

She pulled at her straps, hoping they would come free from shear willpower. They held steady, holding her in place as a virgin sacrifice for him—spread, and unwilling, and waiting. She was so vulnerable, and there was no chance for escape. No weapons lay nearby, no allies came to help. _It was just her and the man—themselves, only themselves, only ever themselves —just the way he wanted it._

 _But he never moved from his corner. He stayed there, hidden in the shadows. Lacey tried to forget him, tried to stare at the ceiling as the light fully faded from her room, the darkness conquering the day. But he was always there, an ever-nagging thought in an otherwise empty mind. She could only push him so far; her mind was only so big. There was not enough room for her to forget, nor would he allow her._

 _Every time Lacey dared to close her eyes, dared to try to sleep, he would move_ ever so slightly _so that his long cloak would whisper along the floor like a prayer. Her eyes would snap open, he would freeze, and the whole process would begin again._

 _Lacey's veins buzzed, and her head felt heavy with pressure. Her body was betraying her; in her final moments, it would not allow her peace. So she waited for him to strike, and he stood silently in the corner,_ _and the long night dragged on._


	2. Chapter 1

It all started with assault.

Emma Swan watched Mr. Gold limp towards his front door as she dropped him off early Friday morning. It had been an eventful four days, beginning with her discovery of Gold's secret cabin and the recreational activities he enjoyed partaking in up there. Moe French was still recovering in the hospital from his beating. Mary Margaret visited every day, often relaying her worries back to Emma over dinner.

"He doesn't have any money, Emma. I don't know how he's going to pay off these bills. He can't work for weeks… It's a rather hopeless situation," Mary Margaret confessed over Granny's lasagna Wednesday night.

Emma stayed silent throughout the conversation. It had been a rather strange day from the moment she locked Gold up until Mayor Mills had walked in and handed over Henry. They were all hiding something. Her superpower had been on high alert since the night before, flashing in her mind that something was… off about this entire situation. It went beyond Storybrooke's normal strange disposition. There was a secret here—one that included Gold, Regina, and Moe—and Emma knew she needed to solve it. Someone was in danger, and it was her job to save them.

She visited Moe Thursday in the hospital to take his statement. He insisted on pressing charges, something about how the "dirty, crooked, no-good pawnbroker needs to pay for what he did. Let him rot. Serves him right." Quite frankly, Emma didn't know where these actions would lead him, even as she filled out the form in the small, white room. Mr. Gold had already sought revenge on Moe; both men seemed more than willing to continue this cycle of vengeance until someone (most likely Mr. Gold) destroyed the other. In any case, Mr. Gold was quite powerful, and there was no doubt that he would weasel his way out of jail soon enough.

As it were, by late afternoon, Emma received a call from Moe confirming that he was dropping all charges and that they needed to put the entire situation behind them.

For her part, Emma dawdled. She waited as long as she could before beginning the discharge process. Somehow, she turned an hour's worth of paperwork into four, and when all was said and done, there was no one available to drive Mr. Gold home.

And so, Mr. Gold spent one more night behind bars.

Now, she was watching him slowly walk towards his house, as the previous days played over and over and over in her mind. She had questions. As soon as the door locked behind him, there would cease to be any answers. And so, Emma made a decision, even before her mind registered the slamming of the car door.

She called after the surly pawnbroker. For his part, he ignored her (although she secretly would expect nothing less). Emma huffed knowing he had every intention of making this as difficult as possible. "Gold!" she yelled again, as she jogged over to him, reaching out a hand to turn him around before deciding against doing so. She desired to keep all of her limbs, thank you.

He had, however, finally stopped. He refused to turn, being the continuously stubborn man she had come to know him as. Emma rolled her eyes, even as she prayed that no one saw her doing so in her uniform. The Daily Mirror would have a field day. Sidney Glass was always looking to uncover one scandal or another, even if that scandal was no bigger than acting "unprofessional."

"Sheriff, it's been a rather long couple of days and I would like to go home. So if you don't mind, I think we're done here."

"I do mind, actually," she said as she finally stepped in front of him, halting his progress as he tried to make his escape once again. "There are a couple more questions I'd like to ask you about that night."

"And there is nothing more I have to say about it. Now, legally, I don't have to tell you anything, _Sheriff._ "

"Then think of it as a regular conversation between neighbors."

"I'm not in the business of having casual _chats_ like schoolgirls. Next you'll be asking to braid my hair. Now, if you'll excuse me…" And Mr. Gold pushed past her, his steps quick and light. For an older gentleman with a cane, he moved strangely fast.

"Why did you go find Moe, Gold?" She called as he reached the front door. Once again, he stopped as his hand hovered over his pocket. "Why did you go after him? What's this all about?"

He turned, slowly and deliberately, knowing that each movement spiked anxiety into Emma's heart. She tried to brush it off, but there was something so unsettling and… _knowledgeable_ about Mr. Gold, as though he knew all of her secrets before she did.

"I told you already, Miss Swan. He _stole_ from me."

"No," she countered, stepping towards him, "this went beyond that. This was more personal."

"He stole from me, _personally._ "

She was shaking her head even before he finished his sentence. His eyes were narrowed slits, like he was a snake waiting for its prey to make the exact wrong move before it could strike. "I don't believe that."

"Believe whatever you wish, Sheriff. The truth remains as it is."

"Who's the girl, Gold?"

Every muscle in Gold's body coiled. He stood perfectly still and perfectly ready to strike. Emma unconsciously stepped backwards—her body understood the danger even as her mind forged ahead.

"I told you already, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Stop lying. There's more going on here, and I'm going to figure it out, Gold, with or without your help."

He stared at her a moment longer, before his body unraveled. Each muscle slowly unclenched and the unshakable feeling that she was his prey softly vanished.

"Let dead tales rest, Sheriff," and with that, he turned around and walked into his house, the door audibly locking behind him.

Emma stood there for several moments longer, staring up at the cold house in front of her. Just like its owner, the house appeared obstinate and stately on the exterior. However, as Emma knew, the house contained hundreds of secrets inside. She was determined not to let this one be buried.

After several minutes, she finally turned away, never noticing the swish of the curtains from the upstairs window. If Gold refused to cooperate, there were other men in this town where she might find answers.

And Moe French certainly couldn't run from her in the hospital.

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 **So here this is. Not the best chapter in the world and certainly not that long, but it's done. I have always had every intention of finishing this story, but life always seems to get in the way. Part of the reason why I stopped was because I had no idea how to write this chapter (still don't) and for other reasons. I promise I write better than this.**

 **Lastly, I've accepted a job in Belize for the next two years, so I'm trying to get as much of this story done as I can before then. I promise it gets both better and slightly longer.**


End file.
